


A Little Less Badass (A Little More Nerdy)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam reflects on their bizarre trio as they bond over nerd-like things. And sometimes make out a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Badass (A Little More Nerdy)

Title: A Little Less Badass (A Little More Nerdy)  
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Sam Evans/Noah Puckerman bromance with kick  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through Rumors.  
Summary: In which Sam reflects on their bizarre trio as they bond over nerd-like things. And sometimes make out a little.

They aren’t the kind of trio Sam ever expected himself to become a part of. Trios are supposed to be badass, capable of saving the world. The Three Musketeers. Batman, Robin, Batgirl. Harry, Ron, Hermione. Trios are hardcore.

Of the three of them, maybe Puck could claim that title, but he’s decidedly alone in that corner. Because, really? Rachel wears leg warmers in May and Sam…well, Sam lives in a motel.

Not that badasses can’t live in motels. He thinks. It’s just that he’s never _heard_ of one doing so, and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be the first.

Maybe. He’ll have to ask Kurt about cape options on Monday and see where it goes from there.

The point is, they’re not the ideal combination of individuals by any stretch of the imagination. They definitely aren’t the kinds of friends Sam saw himself having when he transferred to McKinley, but he’s finding he enjoys the Friday nights spent in their company. Even if that company is really freakin’ weird sometimes.

“Zombies!” Puck is shouting now, gesturing blindly with the controller in his hand. Rachel’s only got a Playstation 2, which sucks, but Sam thinks it’s pretty cool that she’s got a game console at all. Besides, _he lives in a_ _motel_ ; the best he can claim where games are concerned is a really nice tennis ball to bounce off of stuff.

But there’s really no need to think about crappy living arrangements on a Friday night, not when Puck is standing in the middle of the Berry basement, toothpick clamped between his teeth (he wants a cigarette, Sam senses, but Rachel has a strict no-go on the smoking thing in her house), legs set firmly apart. His jeans and the military-grade tank top he’s wearing are spattered with flecks of orange paint; his bare feet flex against the carpet. Sam spots a bit of paint smudged in his recklessly spiked mohawk and grins. They’ve spent the afternoon repainting Rachel’s room with her, and now—sprawled around her basement as usual—they have reached the inevitable conclusion of any day spent together.

“Zombies are the best!” Puck repeats, the words slightly muffled by his efforts to keep the toothpick in place. “They’d bring the greatest apocalypse ever!”

“No way, dude,” Sam retaliates, tapping the unpause button on his own controller. Puck growls and smacks his own again, freezing Crash Bandicoot and friends in the middle of their race.

“Zombies would take over _everything_ ,” he insists. “They’d have the planet in, like, six months. Tops. They’re fuckin’ _tanks_.”

“What about water?” Sam counters. “Earth has so many bodies of water, man, and zombies totally can’t swim.”

“Since when?” Puck shakes his head. “The fuckers learned to run easy enough, who says they couldn’t steal a boat or some shit?”

“Zombies can’t _think_.” Sam heaves a sigh, tilting his head towards Rachel. “C’mon, tell him.”

She rolls her eyes, leaning forward and eyeing the television screen. “Unpause it, Noah, I was winning!”

“Tell him zombies can’t think!” Sam repeats, flailing with his controller. “They’re _decomposing_ , all they are is pure animal instinct. They probably don’t even _recognize_ boats, much less have the ability to drive them.”

“Sam’s logic is sound,” Rachel admits, gazing imploringly up at Puck. “I don’t believe zombies would bring about the ultimate end of the world.”

“They so would!” Puck grumbles, but he obediently allows the game to begin again. Rachel immediately thunks her thumb down on the throttle, jerking the controller this way and that as if the motion has any bearing at all on her character’s steering. She’s always doing this, and Sam thinks it’s kind of cute. He wonders if, with their combined pool and pizza money, he and Puck could afford to get her a Wii for Christmas.

A stupid idea, totally, because he’s havin a rough time keeping his family in bread and butter as it is (not to mention Rachel’s total lack of _need_ for another gaming system; she’d probably get pissed that he’s even considering it), but he can’t help it. She’s been so _nice_ to him—Puck, too—and it’s not like he’s had a real close friend since…

Well, in a good long while.

Puck whoops triumphantly as his car skids across the finish line. “I win again, bitches!”

“Close second,” Rachel grumps, chucking her controller down rather violently. Sam laughs.

“You need more games. He’s getting too good at this one.”

“There’s a Game Stop around the corner,” Puck says instantly. “I’ll drive. We’ll get something Mortal Kombat-y.”

“No violent games in my house, Puckerman,” Rachel grumbles, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. “Not after last time."

“ _You_ broke the vase, not me,” he protests. “Just ‘cuz you’re a sore loser, Berry, doesn’t mean we all have to suffer.”

“You called me a p-word!” she shrills. “A p-word, Noah Puckerman! That behavior is unacceptable!”

“I called you a pussy, so you threw the controller at my nose?” He arches a skeptical eyebrow, grinning. “Berry, I think you have a very shifty definition of justice. And, seriously, you of all people oughta know what a foul it is to aim for Jew’s nose. Jesus.”

Sam snorts into his hand. Rachel tilts her head back and sniffs haughtily.

“I believe my actions were perfectly fitting, given the circumstances. And if you ever call me that again, Noah, I swear—“

“You’ll what?” he taunts, sidling closer. “Throw the whole Playstation?”

“I’ll tell your mother,” she threatens, lips stretching in an evil smile. His face goes pale.

“You wouldn’t damn dare!”

“Try me,” she laughs, poking a finger into his chest. Sam snorts again, so violently that his palm vibrates. Puck’s head swivels defensively towards him.

“Shut it, Trouty, or I’ll kick that pretty-boy ass.”

“Promises,” Sam teases, batting his eyelashes. Puck grins.

“Dick.”

“Jackass.”

“ _Boys_ ,” Rachel huffs, fingers twisting in Puck’s shirt. “I swear, the mouths on the two of you are—“

“Fantastic,” Puck supplies cheerfully.

“Impressive,” Sam adds.

“Stupendous!”

“Oh, look, he learned a new word!”

Rachel’s hand tightens on the shirt even as Puck attempts to squirm loose and punch Sam in the shoulder. “You two, honestly, I don’t even know why I put up with you.”

“Because we’re _seeeexy_ ,” Puck sing-songs. He reaches out and playfully pushes against her forehead. “Sexy _and_ we bring you pizza.”

“Vegan pizza,” Sam adds. “Which is pretty damn hard to convince Jim to make, by the way. He gets all cranky every time.”

“ _Plus_ , we painted your room for you,” Puck adds. Rachel rolls her eyes.

“With me, Puckerman.”

“ _For_ you,” he repeats. “Standing on the bed pointing out missed spots is not helping.”

“It was essential,” she replies, leaning away from his calloused palm. “I do not need a man to help me with things like redecorating my room.”

“Right,” he agrees. “You need _two_ men.”

“Manly men,” Sam fills in. Puck reaches back and high fives him. Rachel beats one small fist against his breastbone.

“You, Noah Puckerman, are an ass.”

He catches her hand by the wrist, flattening her palm over his heart and making a show of swooning. “By Yahweh, she’s learning!”

Sam sits back and beams, watching her wriggle loose and pound her fists playfully into Puck’s chest. They’re such a weird combination: the bad boy, the nerdy jock, and the studious bigmouth. There is absolutely no reason why they should ever work.

But they all love pizza—even if Rachel won’t let them order anything with pepperoni—and they’re all competitive, and sometimes they gear up for a three-man jam session (which usually ends in Sam and Puck dueling back and forth with ridiculously complex riffs while Rachel makes up her own absurd lyrics). They’re cool, Sam thinks, these two bizarre people he’s found himself throwing in with, and he’s grateful for them.

It shouldn’t have been them at all, he knows. It should have been Finn, Quinn, Kurt. The three who were there for him at the start—Finn, with his easy willingness to show Sam around; Quinn, with her ability to keep his secrets even after breaking his heart; Kurt, who put his own image on the line just to keep him steady. It should be those three he spends all his time with, undoubtedly so.

But Finn stole his girl out from under him, and Quinn let herself betray him, and Kurt…well, Kurt’s busy with his own fabulous, glittering world. They’re all great—all of Glee Club is—but in the end, he needs people a little more interested.

 _Steadily_ interested.

When Rachel bounded up to his locker one Tuesday afternoon and proposed a “trade of services”—her tutoring skills in exchange for his manpower to move things about as she redid her room—he wasn’t expecting much to come of the deal. Dyslexia’s a bitch and a half to deal with on a good day, no matter how avid your tutor happens to be. He’s smart enough to know he _knows_ the information; he just can’t get it on the page all the time.

But, really, what harm could come from trying? He showed up, just as he’d promised he would. And found Noah Puckerman slumped at the Berry kitchen table, chin propped on his hand, half-tuned into Rachel’s lesson on fractals.

“Need a passing grade,” he’d grunted as Sam slipped in and took the seat beside him. “Can’t flunk off the baseball team.”

And so began their friendship: with Rachel doing her best to jam little tricks past their thick skulls, with Puck growling and swearing in frustration, with Sam anxiously chomping down snack bag after snack bag of Doritos. From tutoring sessions sprang slow, but surprising results, and from those sprang a sort of unexpected loyalty—the kind that comes only from slaying a brutal dragon together.

Sam thinks raising their collective grade point average doesn’t quite measure up to marching into Mordor, but it’s definitely _something_.

And now they’re here, spending their afternoons rearranging Rachel’s room, mowing her lawn, taking care of the little odds and ends her absent-minded fathers tend to leave undone…and spending their evenings like this.

Rachel’s fists have stopped beating against Puck’s chest, her arms having draped around his waist comfortably. Sam sprawls back on the couch and watches Puck draw her to a standing position and spin with her across the room, humming an unknown tune under his breath. They make a strange pair, just as the three of them make so little sense together, but he enjoys watching them. Dark hair, dark eyes; his bluster and her zeal. They should hate each other, and he suspects there was a time when they did. Not now. There's respect here now, a mutual understanding that neither need to pry past. Their friendship is so companionable, a comfort zone he’s never seen Rachel slip into with anyone else. Not even Finn--which is at once remarkable and depressing. Sam wonders why it is Finn can’t seem to get his head on straight and realize what he’s got within his grasp.

Not that Finn seems one for ever reconciling what he wants with what he has. Sam can’t wrap his mind around that. It’s probably why they failed to have the kind of friendship he once expected.

Also, there’s the whole stealing-his-girl bit to consider.

Rachel rests her cheek against the paint-stained tank top, fingers flexing through Puck’s ragged belt loops, and closes her eyes. She’s beautiful, Sam can see, and he wonders why so few people seem to appreciate it. Sure, it’s easy to get caught up in the likes of Quinn, with her mightier-than-thou demeanor and classic beauty, or Santana, with her exotic caramel skin and fiery temper, or Brittany’s long, strong legs and toned abs. It’s easy to get distracted by their confidence and disinterest, to get swept away by the aura of “look, touch, but never truly _have_.” He’s been there himself. But these other girls in Glee, the ones who get so overlooked…Tina, with her peaceful smiles, or Mercedes, with her absolute certainty as to who she is. They’re beautiful, too, and wonderful in their own way. He wonders how it is they can be so abused at that school.

And Rachel…especially Rachel. Rachel, whose smile is genuine, whose eyes are kind, whose voice supercharges the whole _building_ when she lets it ring free. Rachel is a little crazy, and a lot over the top, but she’s compassionate, and she wants so badly to be let in. He doesn’t get how people feel it’s okay to walk all over someone like that.

And Puck, with his strong arms and brazen loyalty, who will fight to the death for what few people he cares about…Puck, who gave up a child last year, and never says a word about it…Puck who, from the stories Sam has heard, has changed more than anyone since joining the club…no one seems to see Puck for who he is. Sam isn’t sure who’s to blame for that, but either way, it’s sad. Puck is funny and smarter than anyone gives him credit for—maybe not where the books are concerned, but when _people_ are on the table, he sees a lot.

They all do. And maybe that’s what keeps them tied so firmly together, against all odds.

Puck continues to twirl Rachel about the room, big hands steady on the small of her back, his chin bent forward. Sam watches from the couch, noting the way work-worn fingers catch in the wrinkles of her blouse, smoothing them out one by one. Rachel sighs, eyes squeezing even tighter shut for a moment, then releases a gust of air. She lifts her head, meets his eyes over Puck’s shoulder, and grins.

“Dance with us!”

He’s not a dancer, not by nature, but there’s something infectious in her smile that he can’t back down from. A little reluctant to move away from the couch, he stands and brushes at the paint stains on his own pants. Puck side-steps into his space, allowing Rachel to reach out to him.

“C’mon, wuss-ass,” Puck says cheerfully as her fingers close around Sam’s and haul him closer. “It’s only a _little_ gay.”

It isn’t, though, not really, and even if it were, Sam doesn’t think he’d mind. He tucks his head against Puck’s shoulder, his hand meeting strong fingers against Rachel’s back, and lets himself go. Dancing with these two, laughing with them, spinning jovially around the room until the walls rotate of their own accord—it isn’t about being gay, or straight, or whatever Sam himself really is. It’s about feeling safe. Safe, and happy, and about having _friends_.

They’re the best friends he’s ever had.

When they grow too dizzy to remain on their feet, they sink: Puck staggering back and forth to keep precarious balance, Rachel giggling as she drags them both down with her. Sam laughs even as his head bangs against flimsy carpet, his eyes twitching uncomfortably from side to side.

“Oh God, I’m gonna puke,” Puck moans through his laughter, rolling onto his back and pulling Rachel flush against his chest. Sam nestles in on his other side, forehead resting against a broad shoulder, his hand stretching to meet Rachel’s. It takes him three tries to grab her fingers, swiping repeatedly through a mirage.

“You better not, Noah Puckerman,” Rachel insists, her voice muffled. “You already smell.”

“Like a raging, sexy man beast?” he asks brightly, nosing into her hair. She groans.

“Like gross boy sweat and paint.”

“The paint part is sexy,” Sam offers, laughing. Puck makes a languid swipe for the back of his head, missing by a mile.

“My ego, she aches. You two are such bitches.”

“Yeah, but we’re _your_ bitches.” Sam lifts his head enough to meet Puck’s eyes and performs an eyebrow wiggle worthy of the man beneath him. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Shut up, Lips,” Puck growls good-naturedly, sighing when Rachel presses a warm kiss to his neck. “Berry, don’t go startin’ something you can’t finish.”

She ignores him, hand clenching around Sam’s. This, too, should be the oddest thing in the world: not only their being friends in the first place, but _this_ state of complete relaxation with one another. Sometimes, they argue over whether or not Spider-man could kick the crap out of Batman. Sometimes, they debate the pros and cons of talking Schue into performing RENT. Sometimes, they throw playful tantrums when Rachel beats them both at Tekken.

And sometimes they do this.

The world has slowed around them, the walls settling back into their natural static state. Sam finds he can pick his head up off the floor and not feel the contents of his stomach shift violently, which makes watching Rachel trail a slow path up Puck’s neck much easier. His gut tightens warmly, pleased when Puck’s head turns towards him, one large hand moving to cup the back of his skull.

Kissing a boy is easy, he’s learned, maybe even easier than kissing a girl. Boys are simple, rough and warm, and—where Puck is concerned, at least—he doesn’t have to worry about going too far or overstepping any bounds. Puck, he’s pretty sure, doesn’t _have_ boundaries.

Rachel does, and he’s okay with that, because he’s got some of his own. No sex, for one, at least not yet. Sex is for people who know what they’re doing, who are prepared for the consequences of their actions, and Sam…Sam has enough trouble taking care of the family he’s already got.

Besides, as much as he enjoys the sensation of Puck’s tongue curling around his own, Puck’s hands sliding up his shirt, Puck growling into his mouth, he totally isn’t up for dealing with Puck’s dick. Not that it would be necessarily  _bad_ , or whatever, it’s just that…this stuff takes time.

And Rachel, he knows, feels the same way. She doesn’t do the sex thing yet, and he’s cool with that. Puck is too, even if he’s totally grudging about the whole deal. That’s the thing Sam likes the most about Puck: even though he’s an asshole, a complete freakin’ douchebag, he’s learned how to handle limits. Having a kid does that to a person, Sam figures. Once you’ve watched some little person get born, you start to reevaluate things on your own end.

Or maybe it’s just that Puck’s grown up. All Sam knows is, the kid he was warned about when he first moved here isn’t the kid lying underneath him now, lips enveloping his with a warm, wet comfort. Puck the Bully isn’t dead and gone, but he sure as hell has no place in the Berry basement.

Rachel’s mouth brushes against his ear, her hand squeezing his. Sam shivers, pulling away from Puck and pressing his lips against hers, comforted by the stroke of Puck’s hand down his back. It should be so weird, this friendship of theirs. It should make him _feel_ weird, uncomfortable, unsteady. Like his head’s coming apart, like his skin’s on too tight, like his world is caving in. The first time they did this—by complete accident, after a couple of drinks and Puck’s ridiculous insistence that they play Spin the Bottle with three people—he wondered about himself like crazy. _Is this a threesome? Are we together? Is this a thing?_

_Do I have to come out?_

But Puck’s right: this isn’t gay. It’s not straight. It goes beyond definition, beyond label, beyond judgment. He likes them both. He _trusts_ them both. And sometimes, he kisses them both.

Rachel giggles against his mouth when his fingertips tickle her skin. He pulls away and grins, amused when Puck’s hand comes down on his ass and clenches.

“Dude, your technique needs work.”

“You say that every time,” he retaliates. “Yet you keep coming back for more. Why is that?”

“Your mouth is huge,” Puck says simply, squeezing his ass again before darting up and capturing Rachel’s mouth. She squeals in surprise, melting against him after a moment and sighing contentedly.

It only lasts a few minutes, as usual—too much longer, and Puck winds up panting and growling, pushing them both aside so he can leap to his feet and go pacing across the room—but it’s nice. It’s warm. For those few minutes, Sam forgets that he wonders if his next paycheck will be enough to feed his family, or if Schue is going to use him in the next competition, or if Kurt’s ever going to look at him with more than a passing smile. He forgets to wonder if he’s going to pass Biology, or if this next interview will secure for his father a job. None of that matters right now.

All that matters, when Puck and Rachel stop kissing at last, when Sam draws reluctantly away from Puck’s collarbone, his hand slipping out from under the boy’s shirt, is that he has friends. Good, solid, slightly bizarre friends.

“I’m hungry,” Puck mumbles into his hair, turning his head to spit out a mouthful. “Gross, dude, get a haircut.”

“Those cost money, bro,” Sam mumbles back. Rachel rubs his back gently.

“I’ll get my dad’s scissors and do it for you, if you want.”

“Dude! Dye it something! Dye it blue!”

“I’m not dying my hair blue.”

“Can I dye _my_ hair blue?”

Rachel smacks Puck’s shoulder. “You would look thoroughly moronic with blue hair, Noah.”

“Not even. I’d be a total rock star BAMF,” he replies, sitting up and combing his fingers through his mohawk. “Come on, let’s try it, at least.”

Sam shakes his head, watching them stand. “I’m not letting you near my head with dye.”

Puck smiles slyly. “Who cares, Lemon Head? Not like you’re goin’ _au natural_ as is.”

He makes a face, accepting the hand he’s offered and allowing Puck to drag him to his feet. “Can you even be on the baseball team with blue hair?”

“Already playin’ with a ‘hawk and gauges, bro.” Puck shrugs. “Don’t give a shit. No shits are given.”

“You both are ridiculous,” Rachel calls from the stairs. “Are you coming or not? I think we’ve got graham crackers.”

They’re more than weird, Sam thinks as Puck nearly tramples him heading upstairs. They’re insane. They should never work, not even a little bit. Trios are supposed to be badass.

He supposes settling for a little freaksome isn’t so bad. Superheroes are freaksome, too. Just look at the X-Men.

And, seriously, the way Puck kisses could _totally_ be superhuman.


End file.
